


Workaround

by Calico



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-16
Updated: 2012-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-29 15:47:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calico/pseuds/Calico
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's on a mission; John's along for the ride. Business as usual, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Workaround

**Author's Note:**

  * For [resonant8 (Resonant)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Resonant/gifts).



Eventually, the drumming on the bathroom door became audible even over the noise of the shower.

"Okay," John called, rinsing the last of the suds from his face and twisting off the water.

The noise redoubled.

John scrubbed at his hair with a towel, hastily rubbed himself down, then wrapped the towel around his waist and tucked it in before opening the door. " _What_?"

Sherlock froze, fist in the air, scowling. In the half-second pause that followed, John felt the warm flicker of Sherlock's gaze, tapping down the landmarks of his body like a penny in an arcade machine.

"You're late," Sherlock said then, as if he'd been looking nowhere of the sort. He was dressed up, John couldn't help but notice. Black suit, dress shirt, bow tie. What the actual fuck?

John folded his arms across his bare chest, trusting the tight grip of his towel. "Late for what?"

As far as he was concerned, tonight was going to involve some television, some take-away noodles, and maybe some sex. Probably just his own hand. He'd had a vague notion of having a wank in the shower, but the drumming on the door had put paid to that.

There was always the chance that Sherlock would fancy a shag later – provided he hadn't irritated the crap out of John by bedtime, which was always a risk – but Sherlock's interest in sex was not what John would call predictable. There'd be some days when he could barely get through the door, Sherlock was so eager for it; and others, when after two or three cautious seduction attempts Sherlock would throw a pissy " _could_ you go bother someone or something else? I am in the middle of something quite uninterruptible" and return to poking at animal, human or machine parts without a second glance in John's direction.

It was galling that, despite seeming to prioritise sex somewhere between "buying chalk" and "drinking tea", when Sherlock did want it he manifested an ability to push John's buttons like no-one before.

"Dinner," Sherlock declared. His voice was pure impatient business, but the heated look in his eyes made John feel like his towel was paltry defence. Maybe something would be on the cards after all...? "The Dorchester. Perfume thieves."

"Perfume—?"

"And we should have been there twenty minutes ago, if we wanted to slip in unnoticed," Sherlock said, reaching for him with an accusing look, tugging him by the elbows into the chilly corridor. "Naturally I have already thought up an excuse for the doorman, but there is really no time to lose. Come on!"

John almost stumbled, resisting. "Look—" he started, but he was shivering already, his damp skin no longer cushioned by the heat of the steamy bathroom. He swore under his breath and hurried in the direction Sherlock was pointing, feeling his nipples peak, his skin tighten into goose-pimples.

"Come on, get dressed," Sherlock was ordering, herding him into John's bedroom. "The cab's outside."

"You already ordered a—"

"I didn't know at that point that you were going to fall asleep in the shower," Sherlock said loftily, and John bit down on a growl.

"I didn't—"

"Clothes on! Now!"

John yanked his wardrobe open, finding Sherlock's agitation – as ever – contagious. So they were going out – fine, bit sudden, but okay – and they were late already – the usual! – and somewhere someone had committed or commissioned scent-related crimes – Sherlock could fill him in on the way – if only he could find something appropriate to wear.

John squinted at the jumble of shirts he only wore for work, only to be crowded out of the way by Sherlock, muttering "Too slow, too slow!"

"Sherlock," John snapped, and a shirt flew out of the wardrobe and flumped against his chest. Then a pair of socks, which bounced off the bed and onto the floor.

"That," Sherlock was saying, muffled by still being nose-deep in the wardrobe. "Put that on! And these!"

Another bundle of fabric hit John in the shoulder, heavier this time. Ah, yes. The bottom half of his Mess dress – about seven hundred quid's worth of silky black military trousers – being flung about like a discarded towel.

And if he'd found the trousers...

Sherlock wheeled around, brandishing the tailored jacket as well, eyes gleaming with triumph. Then he huffed, taking in John's state of undress. "Ugh, come _on_. What are you doing, what's wrong with you? You're not wearing enough clothes!"

Faced with this glowering man-shaped tempest, John felt his resistance ebb. Yes, he was insufferable, and yes, he was impetuous, but John couldn't help it: when Sherlock had a mission like this, he was the most captivating creature in the world. Those perfume thieves weren't going to know what hit 'em.

"I'm waiting for some underwear," John lied.

Sherlock flashed him a grin, clearly reading the nuances of his acquiescence like other people read headlines. "No time for underwear," he declared, tossing the jacket onto the bed. "Start with that! I'll find you a tie."

John shook out the trousers and lay them carefully across the bed as well. "You know these are the most expensive clothes that I own," he said, and loosened his towel.

"Yes," Sherlock said, twisting back around, his gaze arrowing to John's waist even as he ducked and picked the socks up from the floor. "Just as you know the average price per head at The Dorchester."

Once again, his expression was heavy with lust whilst his voice was crisp with impatience.

Well, no matter; John wasn't hard anyway. Being bullied into a suit – which, now he thought about it, he wasn't sure it was actually legal for him to wear when not on army business – but even setting that aside, there was nothing exciting about donning an outfit that was too stuffy and restrictive to run in. An outfit that perfectly suited the man he no longer was... clothes which used to make him feel like a million dollars and now made him feel like a fraud...

"We have no time for you to become maudlin," Sherlock announced, and threw the socks at him.

John caught them on reflex, turned and sat on the bed to put them on. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sherlock's head bobbing up and down. "What are you looking for?"

"Dress shoes."

John stood again to pull the trousers on, secretly glad that Sherlock wasn't looking. There was nothing dignified about going commando, and he wouldn't be doing it now if he thought he had a hope in hell of getting some pants with Sherlock guarding the wardrobe. But the silken fabric was heavy and reassuring under his fingers, and he supposed it could be worse. "Bottom left," he said, pulling them on and looking around for the shirt.

"Of course," Sherlock said.

Halfway through sliding his arms into his shirt sleeves, John paused. When in his life had Sherlock needed instructions on finding shoes? "Um—"

Sherlock turned around, a fierce look in his eye, and proffered a bow tie with one hand, John's best shoes with the other.

"Um," John said again, shrugging into the shirt and then pausing again. "One at a time?"

"God," Sherlock hissed. "You're so _slow_." He padded closer, dropping the shoes to the floor without looking, and curled the hand holding the bow tie around John's neck. John's pulse went up an unsteady notch, and he became aware of his own breathing: shallow, fast. He hadn't had time to button the shirt, and it hung open, emphasising every breath. "You're so slow it's painful to watch," Sherlock told John's mouth, staring at it, breathing fast himself.

John swallowed. Self-conscious, him? Just from having his lips stared at like they were this lunatic's next meal? Ridiculous notion. "I thought you said you wanted me to hurry."

Sherlock made a frustrated noise and kissed him, fast and hard. "I did," he muttered, against John's lips. "I do! What makes you think I don't?"

"Well—" John said, beginning to laugh even as he returned the kiss, the eager wet nuzzle of Sherlock's soft mouth, "—I hate to break it to you, but this isn't making me move any faster."

"Well, you must," Sherlock said, and then gave a low growl and worked his tongue into John's mouth.

John made a noise of surprised protest that didn't last long. Sod the perfume thieves: the prospect of an evening in just got a _lot_ more interesting. He relaxed his mouth, letting Sherlock lead, sucking at the tip of Sherlock's tongue and enjoying the dirty slick intent of it, lewd promises multiplying in his mind.

Hands closed behind his head, holding him still as Sherlock crowded closer, pushing himself against John, shirt buttons scraping his bare chest. "Ah," John hissed, the soft scratches sending shivers down his skin, a wave of awareness that took in nipples, stomach, cock, thighs.

"Mm," Sherlock said, kissing him harder, and then broke off to look down between them, where John's cock was beginning to poke out of his open trousers. "Come on, what's taking you so long?"

"Wh—" John started, and broke off as Sherlock's wonderful hand closed around his cock—and then groaned, as Sherlock tucked it into his trousers, safely out of the way, and zipped up his fly.

"Shush, shush—fuck, I want you," Sherlock muttered, wrestling the button at the waistband closed. His hair was wild, his mouth red and damp. He laid one heavy hand over the bulge of John's cock, massaged it with firm, deliberate strokes, and then made an agonised noise in the base of his throat and wrenched his hand away.

" _Ah,_ " John said, the world roiling around him.

"Shirt!"

"You've got to be joking."

Sherlock closed a hand on each edge of John's shirt and tugged him close. "I never joke," he whispered, and yet from the look in his eyes John couldn't imagine the next five minutes involving anything other than Sherlock shoving him back onto the mattress and then trying to frot him through it.

"You sure about that?"

"Mmm. Come on," Sherlock whispered, snuffling against John's earlobe, fluttering his tongue against it and exhaling, "there's no time for this nonsense."

John's cock strained against his fly, and he made a noise that was half-groan, half-outraged squawk.

Sherlock was already working his way down his neck. "Buttons—yes. I'll help," he declared roughly, and then his hands were on John's chest, greedy pawing hands that nevertheless were fitting the buttons together, sliding one into place, then another, pulling the rest of the shirt taut. Sherlock ducked down and mouthed the V of bare skin that he was slowly covering up, dropping to his knees and panting against the edges of the fabric.

John sank both hands into Sherlock's hair, squeezing tight, and found himself going up on his toes in a blind bid to get any part of his dick nearer to that damn mouth.

"Yes, that's it," Sherlock mumbled, going with it, abandoning the sensitive skin at the base of John's stomach, eyes fluttering closed as his lips slid across the bulge of John's cock; and then he was running his hands around John's waist, tucking the shirt in with three deft pushes, and breaking away to reach for—something.

 _Lube_ , John hoped fervently, but of course it wasn't. It was John's shiny black shoes.

"Are you serious?" John groaned, and then covered his face with both hands. "Sherlock, you can't be, I'm—I cannot think, I can barely stand up, you are _not_ taking me on public transport like this."

"I know," Sherlock said, wrapping one strong hand around John's ankle. "That's why we've got a taxi." He pulled; John found himself lifting one foot, then the other, to be encased in cool smooth leather, Sherlock fitting the shoes onto his feet as if he'd done it a thousand times. Sherlock tied the laces tightly, and how could that be hot, how could that make his cock jump, _how_?

"Sherlock—"

And now he was standing again, so close, breathing deep as his fingers worked their magic on John's bow tie. His voice was a velvet purr in John's ear. "Is there a hat to go with it?"

"I'm not wearing the hat," John said, and so of course Sherlock found it in three seconds. "I'm not," John repeated, but Sherlock was placing it on his head and tilting it _just so_ —and then nodding and dragging him across the bedroom, out of the door, down the stairs to their living room.

"Sherlock," John said, raising his voice. Sherlock had him by the wrist and was tugging just forcefully enough that John had to keep up or face stumbling. The last thing he needed was to trip over when it felt like his centre of gravity had plummeted. "This is—ridiculous, it's—"

"It's The Dorchester," Sherlock called over his shoulder, without slowing. "Top hotel, frightfully exclusive, exacting standards. If you don't look the part," and now they were by the entrance to their flat, and Sherlock whirled them around, backed John against the door, his gaze assessing, "then you won't. Get. Anywhere."

"Get," John repeated, and shook his head, trying to clear it. The door felt very firm behind him; everything else was swimming, pounding. The lights were too bright, and he had a sense of flickering at the edge of his vision. He realised he was holding his hat on with one hand, and felt like a stripper. "What?"

Sherlock stepped back, looked at him for a blistering second, then dropped to his knees. His fingers tore open the button on John's waistband – practised, yes – and then he pressed his mouth right up against the fabric, tongue pushing against the zip. His hot breath reached in towards John's cock, an agonising precursor to the heat of his mouth; and then he was in, both hands holding the fly open, John's bare cock craning out towards his face.

Then he glanced up, almost sly, and opened his mouth. "Do—"

"Yes," John said immediately, barely recognising his own voice.

"—you want me to suck it?"

"Yes," John repeated, and sank his hands back into Sherlock's hair, squeezing with a finality that made his balls tighten. Oh, no, he thought. Oh, no no no. He wasn't letting him up again this time.

"Yes," Sherlock said, his eyes going heavy-lidded. He tipped his face up, tightening John's grip of him, and opened his mouth a little more, gave him a provocative half-smile.

John almost groaned. Fists tight in Sherlock's hair, he aimed himself at that half-smile, drew him in until the head of his cock slid across Sherlock's damp lower lip. Sherlock let out a shaky breath and flicked his tongue out, a dart of heat that John felt down to his toes.

"God," John bit off, almost inaudible, "you," and then his voice gave out as Sherlock closed his eyes and reached again with his tongue to gently, softly lick. _You contrary bastard_ , John thought, _*now* we're going slow?_ and that was it, he couldn't take it any more. He tugged, half expecting Sherlock to resist and continue the tease, and then almost groaned when Sherlock's mouth enclosed him instead.

"God," he said again, "fuck, yes," his spine curving against the door, his head falling back. The hat was a foreign sensation, and part of him wanted to throw it across the room, but that would have involved unlocking his hands from Sherlock's hair, and the risk that Sherlock might stop was simply too great.

Not that Sherlock showed any sign of stopping now. He was sliding forwards on John's cock, bobbing a little, pulling back to suck on the head, sliding forwards again. Lashes downcast, cheeks flushed, lips the same wet pink-red as his tongue; he looked like a cinematic fantasy of oral sex, and in evening-wear, the white collar and black lapels, _fuck_.

Too good to be a coincidence.

"No perfume thieves," John said, barely a guess.

Sherlock pulled off long enough to whisper, "Shush," against the head of his cock, before taking it back inside.

Confirmation; and that was fine by John. He loosened his grip a little, rocked his hips, and groaned under his breath as Sherlock took it and nudged forwards for more. He felt the exasperation of earlier flowing out of him: so Sherlock's methods of persuading him to dress up were on the fraudulent side; so damned what? With every slow fuck into Sherlock's willing mouth the frustration ebbed a little more, until there was nothing left but pleasure, building in succulent, satisfying layers.

John sank his teeth into his lower lip and stared down, grinding his hips. God, that felt good. One of Sherlock's hands was kneading the back of his thigh; Sherlock was using the other, John realised, with a savage pulse of heat, to stroke himself in time. He was a picture of debauchery, the gentleman on his knees, all crumpled finery and hot red mouth.

John pushed in deep, in glorious slow motion, and watched Sherlock's eyebrows draw together as he struggled to accommodate. _Fuck_. Sherlock made a tiny noise that made John's cock flex in his mouth, and the sensation of that—

"Fuck," John breathed, and did it again, again. That little noise, every time, chipping off another fragment of his restraint. The light was perfect on Sherlock's cheekbones, his straining lips. "Fuck. Oh, _fuck_."

"Mmm," Sherlock mumbled, muffled, eager, " _mmm_ —"

"That—yeah, _yeah_." John sped up, his breath coming in alternate gasps and curses, feeling like the wind was being knocked out of him with every thrust. He was dimly aware of Sherlock's arm pumping between them, a shadow of sensation against his leg, speeding up as well. He watched Sherlock's face, almost pained, sucking unsteadily and huffing breath through his nose, not cinematic now, just obscene, and messy, and stubborn and devoted and _his_.

"Ah, _yeah_ ," John growled, jerking forwards and starting to come, and Sherlock moaned in pornographic encouragement around his cock, swallowing as John filled his mouth. John felt himself pitch forwards into a warm bright pool of pleasure, and when he surfaced, he was sliding down the door to sprawl with his legs bent, his hat wobbling off at last and rolling across the floor.

"Uh," Sherlock said, kneeling over him, wanking hard. "Uh, uh, _uh_ —"

John tried to indicate his readiness to participate in some way, but Sherlock swatted his hand down. He was still fully dressed, just his cock out, his hand flashing over it. The lights seemed very bright. John tried to relax back and enjoy the view instead – which certainly wasn't difficult in his state of mind – but then he became aware that Sherlock was scowling at him, and felt he had to say something.

"Are you—"

In a low voice, Sherlock said, "If you have to talk, make it dirty," and John blinked, cheeks heating. This was a different angle to things; not that he was complaining, mind.

"You're so fucking hot," he croaked, and Sherlock smiled at that, stroking harder, leaning closer.

"Louder."

John's cock, which was resolutely done for now, nevertheless twitched. He cleared his throat. "You are so," he said, looking Sherlock straight in the eye, " _fucking_ hot."

Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed, and his smile grew pleased and mean.

John took that as a compliment. "I could watch you all night," he said, his gaze sliding down Sherlock's body, taking in the creased lines and delicious, shadowed contrasts. In the powerful light, he was a study in monochrome; the length of his cock was a glimpse of colour that made John's mouth water. "Let me," he heard himself say. "God, I want to taste you."

"Yeah," Sherlock said, loud, almost too loud. "Fuck, yes. I—I want to finish in your mouth." He reached forwards with his free hand, cupped John's head, stroked one unsteady thumb down the shell of his ear. John shivered, slouching further down the door and then lifting up, so that Sherlock was kneeling over him, all the easier to—

There was a loud click, and then something started whirring, a shrill whine in the quiet room. John turned towards the noise, frowning, and three things happened at once: Sherlock doubled over, clutching his cock, coming into his own hands and nearly head-butting the door; Sherlock's voice creaked out, "No—no don't look, oh fuck, damn it, blast! _Knew_ I should have got the extra 16 gigs"; and John realised why the lights were so bright.

There was a small sleek black box – with a lens pointed at them – on the table.

It was whirring.

"Is that," John started, despite already knowing that it must be. He could feel his mouth stretching in outrage. "Sherlock, is that what I think it is?"

Sherlock, still doubled over, hands still tight around the head of his cock, was resting his forehead against the wall. His most dour, matter-of-fact voice rang out: "Not the model you're thinking of – doubtless the one from your idiot friend's 'wish list' last month, which is inferior in several aspects – but, in the broad scheme of things, I suppose, yes."

 _He's been taping us. He's been bloody taping us!_

John was sure this revelation should have made him angry – at the very least, annoyed – but he couldn't help but notice that he was lying in a post-orgasmic sprawl next to a Sherlock who, far from his normal elegance, had just nearly knocked himself out at point of climax.

John started to snigger. He tried to stifle it, and wound up hiccupping instead. An annoyed noise from Sherlock's crumpled form added fuel to the fire.

Sherlock semi-unfolded. "Shut up, John," he commanded, which had the opposite effect, as John found it difficult to take the authority of any man seriously when said man was clearly in danger of his hands cramping up around his softening cock.

Shaking with stifled laughter, John delved in his pockets and fished out one of his old silk handkerchiefs; nothing but the best for Mess Dinner. "Here," he managed. "You may as well defile this, along with the rest."

Sherlock's hand shot out, accepted the handkerchief, and withdrew. A few furtive moments later, the handkerchief was discarded to one side and Sherlock lifted his head, a picture of tousled indignance. John tried to meet his gaze without laughing.

"Well that was not exactly the dramatic ending I was hoping for," Sherlock said, and they both dissolved.

"You idiot," John told him, between gasps. "What were you thinking, not going for the extra 16GBs?"

"I didn't know at the time that you were going to shower for England!"

" _I_ didn't know that I was going to need another one, less than an hour later—"

"No," Sherlock said, and half-rolled, half-clambered to lie across John's body at the foot of the door. His voice was languid, playful; John's favourite. "You are not allowed in that bathroom without supervision ever again."

"Oi," John grunted. "This floor isn't as comfortable as it seemed five minutes ago."

"That's because five minutes ago I was fellating you to within an inch of your life."

John snorted, and began the process of hauling them to their feet. "Just as far as the sofa," he promised, when Sherlock did his best impression of a lead weight.

"If you insist," Sherlock grumbled, but once they had divested themselves of jackets and undone their bow ties and collapsed onto the sofa, he wordlessly reached down behind the arm and brought out a bottle of port and two fat glass tumblers.

John raised his eyebrows. "I feel spoiled," he said, accepting the glass Sherlock poured for him and relaxing back against the sofa, taking a slow sip. It was sweet and rich, manna in his dry mouth. One from the nicer end of Sherlock's stash, clearly.

Sherlock had downed his own generous measure of port in one quick swallow, set the glass back on the floor, and was lying down with his head in John's lap.

John shifted comfortably, letting his free hand stroke up Sherlock's arm, drawing patterns on his neck. He rarely got the opportunity; most days, Sherlock would bounce up again within minutes of his orgasm and be nose-deep in something more interesting before John had stopped seeing stars. He sipped again, savouring. Truly, this evening had turned out much better than expected. Aside from the absurd duplicity, of course.

He wondered, out loud, "If you wanted to make a home video, why not just ask me?"

Sherlock had buried his face in John's thigh. Now he heaved a great sigh and rolled over to stare at the ceiling. "Firstly, it is not a video, it is HD flash memory," he said. John noted that his voice had already lost its languid quality. "Secondly, I must draw your attention to every photograph that anyone else has ever taken of you. You will note that they share a quality that I believe the photographers were not looking for; namely, a stiffness about the mouth and eyes." Sherlock's gaze flicked to his, then away. "It is a natural phenomenon, and found in most people who are not photographed for a living or drunk. However—"

"So you thought—"

"Don't interrupt," Sherlock said. "I am of course aware that some people are, quotes, not photogenic, close quotes, and that for these people there is little to be done. So last week I undertook to capture a series of pictures of you when you were not aware of the camera."

John lifted his eyebrows, but stayed quiet.

"From these, I deduced that it is not the fault of the lens or the flash that lends the uncomfortable air to your pictures, but rather your natural self-consciousness once you know there is a camera pointed in your direction. So the logical way to proceed was simply by ensuring that you were unaware of this also."

"And... it didn't occur to you that secretly filming someone having sex might not be okay?"

"Oh," Sherlock said, "no." He frowned, then shot a glance at John. "I wasn't going to show it to anyone else," he offered.

John laughed, then slid his hand up into Sherlock's hair and gave it a good ruffle. "Damn right you weren't."

Sherlock bore this indignity in silence, wrinkling his nose. Then he made an irritated noise. "It went wrong, anyway."

John replayed those last few seconds in his mind. "Depends what the purpose was," he said, keeping his voice mild and taking another sip of port to disguise his smirk. Then he frowned. "Although come to that, why film it at all? It's not like your massive brain's going to forget many of the details."

He expected Sherlock's face to light up; instead it closed down. "Well, that's," he said, and looked away again, towards John's knee.

John looked down at the hard lines of his profile, the stupidly pleasing bumps and planes. Was it possible that Sherlock was just a fairly vain bloke who fancied shooting some amateur porn, and had decided to work around the issue of his camera-shy boyfriend in his own inimitable way?

Yes. Yes, it totally was.

John trailed a fingertip down the line of Sherlock's jaw. "Hey," he said, dropping his voice. "You know, you were pretty hot back there. I wasn't kidding. If—"

"That's not it," Sherlock interrupted, all scorn.

John broke off, bit his lip, counted to five; life was too short to count to ten every time Sherlock made him see red. "What then?"

Sherlock was quiet for a long time, long enough for John to start mentally rephrasing the question, and then he grew tense all over and said, "It was supposed to be for you. A—present. Because I am aware that there are times when you, when I am busy and you are – not."

"Oh," John said, processing that. He slid his hand back down Sherlock's stiff shoulder, rested it there. The muscle bunched tighter. "That's... Oh, bloody hell. That's the sweetest non-consensual sex tape anyone's ever made of me."

The muscle relaxed. "I knew you'd see it like that," Sherlock lied. Then his voice darkened. "But at the heart of the project was your ignorance of it. Now you know what it involved, the whole thing will have to be abandoned."

John pitched his voice at its most casual. "Oh, I don't know. It was your bit that went wrong, anyway. And I wouldn't be averse to, uh, shooting some of it again, if you had a few spare minutes one day."

Sherlock twisted back around in his lap, fixing him with a suspicious glare. "Of course I do," he said, as if it were obvious. "But the lighting, the mood, it will be all wrong—"

"Mmm," John said, smiling and closing his eyes. This had turned out to be a pretty great evening, all told. "Remind me to teach you about the wonders of editing software, some time."

END

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to resonant! This started as a response to her post pointing out that characters saying "You're wearing too many clothes" is encountered so frequently it's at the point of cliche, and that it would be nice to see "You're not wearing enough clothes" once in a while. (It then deviated, as these things are wont to do.)
> 
> All feedback loved.


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